


The Green Jersey

by Onlythetrain (Misschatelle)



Category: Great Gatsby - F. Scott Fitzgerald
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-13
Updated: 2018-02-13
Packaged: 2019-03-17 14:56:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13661355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Misschatelle/pseuds/Onlythetrain
Summary: There was a story, that he heard as a child. He could not remember when exactly he had heard it, nor how old he was then, but the story had never really left his thoughts. It was about a young boy, poor and unhappy, who had lost his mother at sea, and who often went to the seashore to look at the waves, in the hope of seeing his mother one more time. And one day, as he was crying on the seaside, convinced that he would never see his mother again, she appeared to him, with her long brown hair and her reassuring smile. She dried his tears, and took him with her, to live with her in the sea. Forever.





	The Green Jersey

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this piece as part of a literature class I took back in 2012. (Yup, I got to write fanfiction and get credits for it. Finally, all that fanfiction writing in the middle of the night throughout high school was proving useful.)
> 
> I posted it on fanfiction.net in December of that year, but now that I have an account here, I thought I'd publish it here as well.
> 
> This was written over five years ago, at a time where my English was still a little clumsy. Forgive me for the imperfections.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it regardless.

There was a story, that he heard as a child. He could not remember when exactly he had heard it, nor how old he was then, but the story had never really left his thoughts. It was about a young boy, poor and unhappy, who had lost his mother at sea, and who often went to the seashore to look at the waves, in the hope of seeing his mother one more time. And one day, as he was crying on the seaside, convinced that he would never see his mother again, she appeared to him, with her long brown hair and her reassuring smile. She dried his tears, and took him with her, to live with her in the sea. Forever. 

It was his aunt Madeleine who had told him the story. She had a way with stories, they always sounded special when she told them. He remembered genuinely liking that aunt, despite having met her only a few times in his life. His parents said she was crazy, they had never liked having her around. He could vaguely remember his mother getting irrationally angry, and admonishing her for telling such a nasty story, of a young boy dying at sea.

Obviously, his mother did not understand the story. But he did. And even after all those years, he still found himself going to lakeshores, for lack of any sea nearby, and he could stay there for hours, just looking at the small waves, and waiting.

Waiting for something, anything, that could take him away from his unhappiness. Maybe one day, he would find answers. Maybe one day, the sea would bring him what he needed so much. Just like it had for that boy in the story.

 

o0O0o

 

His name was James Gatz. Jimmy Gatz. Jimmy. No matter how he said it, it sounded wrong. It was not him. It was the name of a poor man's son, and that was not him. It was only what others knew him as, and saw him as. And he knew that if his name had been different, he would not be coming home with a bloody nose so often.

If only he had a name that reflected what he deserved to be, what he _could_ be, instead of merely what he was. Then, things would be different. For sure.

If only he could leave everything behind... start anew...

 

o0O0o

 

He was walking down the street, alone, his arms full of the food his mother had sent him to buy. It was not much. Just a few things that they could not grow by themselves in their miserable fields. It was nothing that would constitute a full, satisfying meal for a teenage boy in growth. 

The walk back to the farm was a long one. Carrying groceries along that distance only served to remind him how far they lived from everything, anything. That farm, which they somehow called home, was nothing like the homes he would read about in books. It was nothing like the warm, comfortable, and happy places that fictional characters thought of as "home, at last!" The family farm was a place of misery and emptiness, of dryness and solitude; it never brought them enough money to afford a decent life. It was unhappiness, exemplified.

Somewhere along the way, in the same spot as usual, he met a beggar woman, sitting on the ground against the wall of a house. She raised a shaking hand towards him and he gave her the only coin he had left from the groceries. She thanked him with a shaking smile and, with a small nod to the woman, he went on his way. There were always people who had it worse, he thought. Sadly, those few people below him in society were the only ones willing to respect him. That was the way it worked.

Further down the way, he met a few other people, boys his age. Definitely higher-ups in that invisible yet sorely real social hierarchy. They made sure to remind him in their own way that he was to respect them. God knows he had not forgotten since the last time.

When he finally got home, his mother asked why on earth he had been fighting again, his father asked where the last coin from the groceries was. And as his father's palm swiftly hit the back of his head, all he could think of was the sea, and the waves, and their secrets that he longed to discover.

 

o0O0o

 

“James” was too common. Too simple. Too... him. There was nothing special to it. He needed a name that caught people's attention. Something shorter. Something more mysterious.

Something like Jay. Jay was good. It was short, enough so to catch people's interest, without revealing too mucheither . Jay was nice.

But then, he also needed a longer last name than Gatz. Nothing too long, but nothing too short. Something to _keep_ the attention drawn to him by his first name. Something that would establish him as a man to be respected. A man to be admired. A man that was not Jimmy Gatz.

He needed something like... Something like...

 

o0O0o

 

He could remember the last time he had seen his aunt Madeleine. He and his mother had gone to visit her at her house, which was quite far away. The visit was mostly spent in critiques and reproaches thrown by his mother to his aunt's placid face. He could not remember what all the fuss was about, he had not really been listening. Nor had his aunt. When his mother had finally taken a break from taking jabs at her sister's lifestyle, she had gone to make some tea in the kitchen, and his aunt had instantly turned to him, a sparkle in her right eye. She had motioned for him to follow her.

Both of them had gone upstairs, to a small and dusty room that seemed useless. Even the bed in it was full of dust, and the sheets on it were neatly pulled, untouched. He watched his aunt go through a pile of mysterious and useless objects, looking for something very specific, before finally pulling a piece of clothing out of the lot.

It was a green jersey. A bit old, a bit dusty. Pretty big, too. She folded it and handed it to him. She did not say anything about it, she simply gave it to him. He did not dare ask questions, it did not feel appropriate. But he had a feeling that this jersey had belonged to whoever had occupied this room, a long time ago, back when the bed was not dusty and the sheets had wrinkles in them.

That was the last time he had seen his aunt. He never knew why, his parents refused to tell him, and they just stopped talking about her after she died. They did not go to her funeral.

It took years before he could fit in the green jersey, and he wore it frequently. His mother never liked it, and she mentioned it every time she saw him in it, but she never tried to stop him from wearing it. He did not have that many clothes, after all.

In a way, it was his favorite jersey.

But in another, he also hated it. For what it represented, what it meant. It was heavy with a past and history he felt unequipped to withstand. And so he made his best efforts to not think about it.

Most days, he succeeded.

 

o0O0o

 

Something like...

Something like...

 

o0O0o

 

Life at home was long and boring. His parents made him work at the farm. He hated every moment of it.

But he also learned from it. As the days and years went by slowly, he felt himself becoming more and more autonomous, and mature. And as he went to bed every night exhausted and drained, he never stopped dreaming of a better life, in which he would never again have to sweat like this for a meagre amount of food on his plate every day.

Whenever he could, he went to the lake and stayed there for hours, just looking at the waves pushed by the weak wind. And on days where there were no waves at all, he just looked at the calm water, analyzing it, waiting for the smallest shimmer. It was fascinating, how changing and unpredictable the water could be, even in smaller lakes like the ones around his home.

After hours of meditation, he would drag his feet back home. Sometimes, his mother would be waiting for him, no matter the time, and give him a long lecture on how worried she and his father were, and how lucky he was the it was she, and not his father, who had stayed awake to wait for him.

Recently, however, he had more than once come home to a dark and quiet house, with nobody waiting for him.

That was fine by him.

 

o0O0o

 

Something like...

 

o0O0o

 

Days were mostly all the same. Long and boring. And lonely.

One day, he met a girl. She was not from the area. That surely explained why she paid him attention at all. They talked for a long time. He lied a lot about who and what he was. Her name was Sophia. She never asked for his name. That night, he lost his virginity.

The next day, he saw her with other boys he knew from school. She ignored him. He was not the mysterious stranger anymore, he was James Gatz, son of a poor family of farmers. They never talked again.

Otherwise, days were mostly all the same. Long and boring. And lonely.

 

o0O0o

 

Something like...

 

o0O0o

 

Of the few things he could remember about his aunt Madeleine, he remembered her stories. There had been one about a Danish King who traveled across the different seas, looking for something mysterious that he could not even name, yet knew that he needed. That man, a certain Gaddesby, had travelled across the whole wide world, looking for that special something, crossing new virgin lands and encountering strange creatures along the way.

He never found the thing.

Until someday... he did. Almost by accident. In the strangest of places.

James never heard the end of the story. His mother had caught them enjoying yet another of her sister's “crazy stories,” and had lectured her for being so indolent, so useless. His mother had dragged him out of the room, and he never got to know what that place was, nor what the special something was that the king was looking for.

The thing with his aunt's stories was that he could never know if they were real, or coming purely out of her imagination.

That suited him, for some reason.

 

o0O0o

 

Something like... Gatsby.

That was it. Jay Gatsby.

“Jay Gatsby,” he tried in the mirror. It sounded nice.

“Jay Gatsby,” he tried again. It was even better.

Jay Gastby, respectable man.

Jay Gatsby, millionaire.

 

o0O0o

 

It was just another normal day. He was out in the village to do groceries for his mother. He was walking down the quiet streets, with no hat on his head to protect himself against the harsh sun of midday. It was hot. It was just one of those days. And he already knew - felt more than anything - how it would go.

On his way back home, with a small bag full of foods requested by his mother (nothing he liked), he met a group of boys about his age. Maybe the same as the last time. Maybe different ones. The biting remarks were the same anyway. He ignored them. They got bored and kept going.

He suddenly wished he could go to the lakeshore. It would soothe him, make him forget, even if for just a moment, who he was, and what he was.

But he could not. Not today. His mother was waiting for him. He was tired, he was not in the mood for a scene. So he kept going. But at a slow pace, for he was still in no hurry to get back that dreary, dejected farm of theirs.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a hand raising in the air in his direction. It was a beggar woman. The same woman as every other time he went for groceries. The same hand, almost out of habit, was stretched towards him, and as usual, he dug the leftover coin out of his pocket, and dropped it carefully into the woman's palm. She nodded a thank you, smiled, and waved for him to get closer. He did, warily, and he heard her weak, trembling voice asking him a question. She had to repeat herself a few times before he understood.

His name. She was asking for his name.

It was an easy question, yet not one he was often asked. He was surprised for a second, and then he found himself thinking. As if an entirely new opportunity had just presented itself to him. And in a way, it had.

“Gatsby. My name is Jay Gatsby.”

The woman nodded again, and smiled. Her eyes said thank you.

As he went back home, he felt like a different person. An entirely new man.

 

o0O0o

 

The next time he sat on the lakeshore, the sun was setting, there was some light wind, and small waves were kissing the shore softly. And he thought. For a long time. About James Gatz. About Jay Gatsby.

He was not Jay Gatsby. Not yet, at least.

But he would be. When the time would come. He would be.

 

o0O0o

 

When his mother first got sick, things changed in the house.

And yet, they did not change that much. The hostility that he had always felt was still very much there. The tension between him and his parents was only worsened by the circumstances. Everyone and everything was pushing him to feel sorry, to worry. And he did, but likely not for the reasons expected.

He loved his mother. He could not deny it. He loved her, he loved his parents.

But he had not felt like their son for a long time.

 

o0O0o

 

His father hit him quite a few times in his life. Years later, he could barely remember most of those blows, but there was that one time he never really forgot. His father had heard that his son had been going around town saying that his name was Jay Gatsby. Was he ashamed of his father's name, now? Was he trying to erase everything he had taught him and provided for him?

That night, Henry Gatz came home with his face red. Barely any words were spoken, but the blows would leave indelible marks, that remained long after the bruises had left James' skin.

He remembered that one time, but not for the bruises, nor for the loud, and yet broken, voice of his father. He remembered it for the assurance he got at that moment, that one day no one would call him James Gatz. No one.

 

o0O0o

 

He got older. Nothing really changed. He did chores and groceries for his parents, days were still long and boring. He was less and less on good terms with his father, but they just never talked about it. They ignored the tension. They ignored the frustration. They moved on with their lives, gradually drifiting apart despite living in the same house, to a point where it felt just like living with a stranger.

He grew up, and he kept waiting, for the day that he would really be able to leave this place.

While waiting for that time to come, he started writing in a notebook. It helped him to stay focused, to discipline himself, and to remember what really mattered to him. He wrote it for himself, although he knew that his father sometimes took a look at it, when he was out. He knew that his father was pleased by what he read, but he also knew that they would never talk about it. They never really talked about anything anyway. His father just would not, and could not understand.

The more time passed, the more James Gatz felt ready. For what, he was not sure, but he knew that he was ready.

 

o0O0o

 

Time passed. Days became months, and then years. He waited. He did not forget. Yet, a part of him was slowly losing faith. What if it could not work? What if this promised life was simply not for him? What if he was never meant to succeed?

He never really gave up, but a part of him insidiously started to believe that he may forever be doomed to remain James Gatz, the ungrateful son of a poor couple of farmers, the young man in his old green jersey.

 

o0O0o

 

He had not been to the lakeshore in a while. So when he finally went, for the first time in months, it felt strange, different. He could not tell why, he just felt it.

He sat on one of the big rocks, and stared at the seemingly endless lake. There were barely any waves, but there would be more soon, he knew that. Some great winds were to be expected. A storm was coming.

He was not as alone as he would have wished. There was an old man a bit farther on the shore, next to a rowboat that he obviously could not maneuver anymore. James briefly wondered what that man was doing, but he quickly brushed the thought aside. He did not really care. It did not matter. Hardly anything did.

Being back there felt refreshing. It reminded him of those dreams and aspirations that made his childhood and teenage years so much more bearable. He was basically a man, now. But he had never really let go of these ambitions. Never completely. 

It was a rather hot day, and his green jersey clung to his skin. It finally fitted him, after all these years, but it was now all torn. It was too old. He did not really know why he wore it anymore. It was comfortable, he guessed.

When the sun started to slide down the darkening sky, hours later, he had to consider going back home. His father would not appreciate his coming back so late. But lectures were getting fewer and fewer these days. He was older now, discipline seemed out of place. At this point, there was not much he could do to change him.

As he rose and stepped down the rock, his gaze swept back to the water and the slowly awakening waves, and that is when he saw it.

A white yacht. In the distance, yet not so far.

He stared at it for a little while, fascinated for a reason that he could not quite grasp. He thought that this boat was not safe, with the winds that were coming. He should go warn the people on board.

And somehow, he just knew, then, that this was it. That nothing would ever be the same again. He did not understand how nor why, but this was what he had been waiting for.

And he knew that he would never be called James Gatz again.

 


End file.
